


Sea Water and Summertimes

by trepidatingboarfetus



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Bad Jokes, Come Swallowing, Farting, Français | French, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus
Summary: From the newly released The Lost Boys Volume One GTA V Fanzine!Michael needs a way to bring his new partnership with Trevor closer together, and he's open to any ideas while they're stuck hiding from the heat while in the heat.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Sea Water and Summertimes

**Author's Note:**

> Remember me mentioning that I was busy working on a huge-ass GTA V Fanzine project with a friend and a bunch of kickass writers and artists? Well, it's out!! Go grab it! 
> 
> https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1wuK7xUDkj4vioR6lWT3eqaeelOHmMwv3
> 
> Now for some notes: LaGrange is pretty far south indeed. I placed them in Indiana because there is a LaGrange in northern Indiana, and they’re somewhere within the Hoosier National Forest near Lake Monroe hiding out lol.
> 
> The song on the radio is actually a song from 1986 called Secret Lovers by Atlantic Starr! Look it up lol. 
> 
> Trevor’s French:  
> L'amour c'est comme le vent, tu ne peux pas le voir, mais tu peux le sentir: Love is like the wind; you can’t see it, but can feel it (a joke about his passing gas lol)  
> Oui oui, mais bien sur: Yes, yes, but of course  
> Tu es le cul d'une vache: You’re a cow’s ass  
> Mon endroit préféré c’est avec toi: My favorite place is with you.  
> Je pense que je sais ce qu'est l'amour, et c'est grâce à toi: I think I know what love is, and it’s because of you  
> Chaque battement de mon cœur est un je t'aime que je t'envoie: Every beat of my heart is an I love you that I send you  
> Je te tiendrai dans mon cœur jusqu'à ce que je puisse te tenir dans mes bras, Michel: I’ll hold you in my heart until I can hold you in my arms, Michael  
> S'il te plaît, permets-moi de te sucer la bite: Please let me suck your dick
> 
> Also, Michael refers to AIDS as GRID because, sadly, for a long time, at least until the mid-90s, it was referred to by that acronym (especially in our neck of the woods) as “gay-related immune deficiency” or “the gay disease” because people were woefully ignorant and refused to see it for what it was. It wasn’t an accepted acronym, just one that the uneducated populace used and was unfortunately used as interchangeably as AIDS at one time.

It’s the blistering asscrack of summer, and there isn’t much to do besides sit in boredom and avoid the heat from the last credit union they held up over in LaGrange. They’re farther south than they’ve ever been, venturing even beyond what they consider their “region.” They’d had to push a little more, go a few more miles because they were running out of places to knock over since they were pissing most of their money away on blow, booze, food, gas, and anything else that felt good, but it is at least warm enough to sleep in the car, so they don’t need to worry about pissing away money on motels, thankfully. 

But the more south they go, the more the humidity gets to them, and the more it seems to get to Trevor’s head. He’s bitchy one minute, stripping clothes the next, and then rambling random phrases that Michael can’t understand. He’s sure it’s French, and it shouldn’t surprise him that the Canadian knows French...because don’t they all know some French up there anyway? But anyway, his new _partner_ , for lack of a better word, is starting to worry him a bit. 

_Do Canadians’ brains melt in the heat?_

Trevor is resting currently in his formerly white Fruit of the Looms with his legs kicked up and hanging loosely out the window of the Chevette in the overbearing heat while they sit parked next to a lake listening to the boombox T had jacked from someone’s backyard one day while they were running. He has to give it to the guy; in another life, if he’d been American, he'd have made a great wideout to Michael’s gun of a throwing arm...if only. The way he could catch or pilfer shit while running from the cops is a sight to definitely see. 

Of course, there is the _slight_ problem that the Canuck has all of the temperance of a hummingbird on crack sometimes which is probably why his efforts at team sports in school had failed spectacularly or so Trevor had told him one still chilly morning not too long ago when they were hiding out in an abandoned garage. Hockey had been a no go. Michael still pales to think of where exactly T had crammed the hockey stick on his coach. Of course, he never went into detail about _why_ he had done that, but if Michael has to guess, T isn’t exactly keen on taking directions sometimes, especially if the game plan has to change quickly. He’s working on changing that with the man. He hadn’t been a team captain for nothing. He sees potential, and T is fucking chock full of it. 

Case in point, Trevor had mumbled something at one point when they’d seen a putt-putt course a while back that he’d been something of a teenage golfing amateur league champion, so he _has_ skill enough by himself, but Michael needs to figure out how to channel that so they can work better in tandem.

The person in question is belting out the chorus to West End Girls by Pet Shop Boys and banging his head like a mad man, his longish locks swaying back and forth with him. He’s sitting cockeyed in his seat already, and how close he is to Michael already has the bigger man’s heart thumping just a little faster than the song. He’s tried to pretend that he doesn’t notice this in the months they’ve been together, and he’s also tried to liken it to Trevor having not had many -- if any -- friends in his short lifespan. Or maybe he’s had more female influences in his life. Something. There’s got to be something to blame for why Trevor is always so close to him or why he’s so handsy and clingy and _always right fucking there_.

He sighs as Trevor’s head plops backward against his chest. Fucking shit, as if it isn’t sweaty enough. “What _is_ it, T?” 

The tall sinewy youth looks up at him with a cheesy grin. “Why, nothing much, Mikey. I’m just bored out of my fucking skull now. There’s got to be something to do, eh?”

Michael swears he tries to be patient, and God better be keeping score, because sometimes it’s way too fucking much, he thinks as he groans irritably, “I told you, there’s not much we _can_ do except lay low in this fucking forest for a few days, T, and then when the coast looks clear, we can move on. And goddamn, I forgot how hot it gets around here during summer, so get the fuck off me, will ya?” He shoves at the taller man a bit, trying to get him to get the picture. 

Trevor doesn’t budge but instead stares up at him with those wide doe eyes, as pretty as Bambi’s but probably not as innocent. “So why don’t you take off your stuff if you’re that hot? No one’s going to see.”

He stares at Trevor, nonplussed. “Are you stupid? _You’d_ see, you fucking nut. No, no way.”

Trevor merely shrugs at him, trying his damnedest to look neutral. Michael can _tell_ these things. “It’s only me, huh, and you’ve seen me as bare as my mama made me. And I’m in my skivvies, so it’s not like I’m going to tell anyone.” That cheesy, lopsided grin slides back onto his face. “We’re both guys -- c’mon, Mikey! Don’t be such a pussy, geez!”

The more Michael thinks about it, the longer and harder he stares at Trevor. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, really. Part of him wants to tell T to fuck off and get his kicks somewhere else because he’s not playing, part of him is telling him that this is his friend and that his friend is right about him being too fucking uptight just like dear ol’ Stepdad, and a smaller part is still looking over his partner’s slim body, admiring how nice it looks without all the layers of clothing they’ve had to wear for months. But he’s also slightly saddened by how thin Trevor looks beneath all of the muscle. He can actually count his ribs which he could swear isn’t supposed to be a good sign, and now that he thinks about it, his new friend doesn’t eat a whole lot either. 

He shakes his head and shrugs his shirt off while Trevor catcalls much to his chagrin. “Stop that shit or I’ll put it back on.”

His friend nods and begins bobbing his head along to the music again. This time, it’s some song that neither one is a hundred percent sure they’ve heard before going on about being friends who are secret lovers who shouldn’t be left alone together, and the both of them begin to look at each other strangely as they listen. Michael feels his heart fluttering and his face flushing, and everything’s getting weirder because Trevor’s face is also moving closer to his...and he’s not really sure what he expects when suddenly a loud brap of gas -- and not the car or utility kind -- goes through the car, ripping through the music, and Trevor giggles slightly maniacally as he sits up and apologizes in a very high-pitched falsetto French accent, “Excusez-moi! Oops!” And that shit-eating grin is back. “L'amour c'est comme le vent, tu ne peux pas le voir, mais tu peux le sentir. That’s how I feel about that,” he laughs as he turns off the radio.

Michael uses his shirt to plug his nose in hopes that this isn’t like some of the nastier ones that Trevor’s dealt but laughs along with him because he thinks the lyrics caught the both of them off-guard, and they both need a good distraction. “Jesus Christ, Trev. At least that wasn’t one of the worst ones.”

The laughter dies down into an easy companionable silence again after a while, and when Trevor’s head falls onto his shoulder, he finds that he doesn’t mind with his shirt off because it’s not as uncomfortable now. He even finds himself playing with a few muddy locks of Trevor’s coarse hair that he’s been trying to grow into some sort of miserable attempt at dreads. He’s surprised when he hears the soft sigh that escapes his friend’s slightly agape mouth. T looks like he’s never been at peace.

Michael thinks he’s never seen a more appealing look on anyone in his entire life.

He smiles gently down at Trevor, continuing to finger his locks of hair playfully. “So is it some sort of requirement from birth that Canadians have to know French or is that just something you’re special at?”

Trevor’s still so relaxed, he answers almost in a trance, “It’s what happens when you’re moved through so many foster homes all over the place. I had to pick up French in Quebec to survive because some of those fuckers will spit on you if you speak the Queen’s English.”

Michael knows that his own childhood was nothing to smile about, but why does he always wind up feeling somehow like Trevor got paid something worse in spades? He starts to frown but shakes the thought from his head and changes the subject. “So speak some French. I’ve never heard you really speak it much, and I was honestly starting to think that the sun was scrambling your brain earlier, so I thought that shit was nonsense.”

Trevor looks put out at first and then a sly smile pops on his face. “Oui oui, mais bien sur, Mikey! Tu es le cul d'une vache,” he grumbles and then heaves a huge sigh, taking Michael’s larger hands in his. “Mon endroit préféré c’est avec toi. Je pense que je sais ce qu'est l'amour, et c'est grâce à toi. Chaque battement de mon cœur est un je t'aime que je t'envoie. Je te tiendrai dans mon cœur jusqu'à ce que je puisse te tenir dans mes bras, Michel.”

The way Trevor rolls his name all French-sounding off his tongue does things to him that he doesn’t even know can _be_ done to him, and his heart feels like it’s in his throat. “I don’t know what the hell you just said, but it was sexy as fuck.”

Trevor’s face looms closer to his, looking desperate. “S'il te plaît, permets-moi de te sucer la bite.” He allows a finger to trail down Michael’s chest, slowly going towards the hair around his belly button. His tongue slowly darts out to lick his lips.

Something in Michael snaps like a warning that this is going into uncharted territory, and the crazy language is overloading his senses. He inches away for a moment just to breathe and begs, practically whines, “Trevor, for fuck’s sake, English!”

“Huh?” And just like that, whatever trance he was in previously appears to be mostly gone. He laughs, but the sound is hollow. “Oh, sorry. I got carried away, eh? Just looking for something to do,” he says so softly that Michael can barely hear him, and then he goes back to looking out the window. 

“What...what did all of that mean?” Michael asks curiously, testing the waters. 

“Oh...oh, none...n-none of it mattered. It was just nonsense, as you said.”

Michael has a hard time buying that, given the way the man across from him is now acting so sullenly and just the way it flowed from his mouth so sweetly, it meant something. It _had_ to have meant something. 

But again, Trevor’s like dealing with a cornered animal sometimes, and this is one of those times, so he chooses a different approach and decides that the pretty French can wait for another day. 

“You said you were looking for something to do? What do you want to do, T?”

Trevor casts him an odd penetrating gaze that reminds him of somewhere between a scared child, someone kicked a puppy, and a horny tomcat. “You really don’t want me to answer that.”

Something in Michael persuades him to mentally test the waters again, dip a toe right in there and feel around even if it’s nothing but cold and stagnant in return...though everything within him is telling him it will be pleasantly warm. Like the right amount of warmth one gets from the ocean water down south at the tail end of summer. He remembers that from the few times his mom dragged them on vacation to the little beaches in the small towns on the outskirts of Vice City.

He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders nervously. “I...I do want you to answer that. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise, dumbass.”

Trevor starts to say something several times, pauses, starts up again, licks his lips, and closes his mouth with a noticeable clanking of his teeth, then groans. “Holy fuck, Mikey, you’re _such_ a tease.” He scratches at the inside of his thigh like he’s dying to get at an unreachable itch. 

And then everything clicks for Michael like a safe opening in his head. _Kaching_. He looks down at the very obvious tent in his friend’s tighty less-than-whiteys, and his mouth waters. What the fuck is going on here? His brain is screaming at him. Is his friend just bored and horny or is his friend horny for _him_??

It’s _not_ like he hasn’t had thoughts. For fuck’s sakes, he _loves_ sex, he _loves_ to jerk off as much as the next guy, so he assumes that everyone’s had the stray thought, right? Wondered what something might feel like? It’s normal shit, it’s got to be. But no one strays into that area because no one _does_. 

But now he’s no longer an All-State QB, his stepdad is no longer around, his mom can’t be disappointed in him and feel like she needs to say the rosary over him every Sunday, and no one’s going to make fun of him. He’s lonely and got an itch to scratch too. And God help him, he’s thinking all sorts of thoughts.

And he’s scared.

“I’ve never done anything before, Trevor.” Trevor starts to grin, and before he can get his wiseass statement out, Michael clarifies, “I ain’t a virgin, you dipshit. I’ve just never...not with guys.” He blushes furiously. “Not sayin’ I’m against it, but I’ve just never done it. No one’s really, uh, _open_ about it where I’m from?”

The wiry punk across from him shrugs. “Eh, they aren’t exactly back home either, but I don’t really give a fuck about that kind of thing. I just do whatever feels good, ya know?”

“Are you saying you’ve done this a lot??” Michael looks at him, perplexed. Trevor shrugs again, nonchalantly, and Michael can feel his heart thumping erratically now beneath his skin. Fucking Jesus, he’s not sure if he’s pissed off that this asshole could even be proposing something that could give him that shit everyone’s dying from now -- that GRID shit if he’s _actually_ been with that many guys -- or if he’s more pissed off that he’s obviously not that special now, and this is just bored T looking to bust a fucking nut. 

And before he can pop a blood vessel and Trevor in the eye at the same time, his friend pipes up, “I...uh, haven’t been with _that_ many guys, uh yet. Just a f-f-few, ya know?”

And Michael relaxes. OK, that’s better. That he can work with. That’s like a chick saying she’s been with just a couple of guys, right? Doesn’t mean she’s been around the block, just that she’s not harder to get into than Fort Knox. 

For some reason, he also finds it really adorable the way his silly Canuck friend stutters when he’s jittery. He leans back against the window, looking at Trevor nervously but also full of excitement to try something new. It’s like being in the ocean all over again, feeling the sand between his toes as the water glides further up to his waist. “So what do you want to do then? You gotta tell me.”

Trevor scratches at his thigh again, and Michael can’t help but move his eyes towards there, watching like some fucked up pervert, but it’s been a while since he’s been alone and been able to rub one out, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that this is turning him on. “Uh,” his friend draws out slowly, pensively, “I didn’t give it much thought. I thought you were gonna dump me on the side of the road in my underwear and peel out, Mikey, honest eh.”

“What? Why the fuck would you think that?” And not for the first time nor probably the last, Michael wonders what kind of hell on God’s green earth has this guy been through in just under 21 years. 

Trevor hasn’t stopped scratching at himself, but his hand has moved closer to his groin, and he looks into Michael’s eyes as he says, “Why would someone as gorgeous as you be into debasing shit like that? You’re not fucked up like me.”

And it takes every fucking last working muscle in Michael’s body not to reflexively moan at his friend because now he’s sure that T is at least attracted to him -- even if the jury is still out on this being Trevor just trying to get off -- but he does pull his cargo shorts down and lets them pool around his ankles. He thinks to himself that this is the place where they can start to meet, that this is where they can find the connection they’re lacking to form their bond. He doesn’t want to tame his friend like some beast, he just wants to be a team. 

And what better way is there to be a team?

He watches the reactions on Trevor’s face with amusement. There’s a look of confusion, replaced quickly by blushing when he realizes that Michael has gone commando under his shorts today because of the heat, and then it’s followed by what Michael can only guess is pure wicked lust when he understands what’s going on here. “Trev, you got it wrong, bud. I’m no way in hell some sort of angel.” But Michael _is_ nervous, so he decides he needs to be the one to start this out slowly; just like the ocean, one can’t just jump right in unless they want to create problems for themselves. No, he needs to ease into this new thing. If Trevor comes running into it headfirst like he does with everything else, Michael’s going to get pushed under, and he doesn’t _want_ to drown; he wants to wade gently in the ocean and let it glimmer around him. “Let’s start off easy though, OK? I may not be a fucking virgin, but I am to this.”

Trevors nods emphatically, almost so quickly that Michael’s afraid he’s going to nod his fucking head right off. “OK, OK,” he chirps gleefully, clapping his hands together, “how about I watch you jerk off? That’s easy right?”

That’s it? That’s fucking _it_? Michael doesn’t know how to feel and says as much. “What the hell? I didn’t mean we needed to be crawling at a goddamn snail’s pace, dumb fuck. I mean, I’m horny too, for God’s sake.”

“But watching you stroke yourself to climax is _so_ fucking sexy, Mikey, and I’ve already peeped on you once. I want to watch you do it, and I want you to watch me watching you do it.” And he looks so fucking serious as he says it. 

And so, so fucking hot. _Oh Jesus God_. 

“Y-you...you’ve already watched me once, you sick bastard?”

Trevor palms himself and groans loudly. “Oh yeah, Mikey, fuck. Just like that.”

Oh Jesus Christ, and his new friend even likes being talked dirty to. Michael has a thing for it, but he never found any girl into it back home, and it’s just not the same paying someone to be into it the couple of times he’s paid for a quick bang. 

He can imagine himself in the warm salty water, wiggling his toes, the sand tickling his skin, and the water just keeps coming closer and closer to his face, but it’s not scary anymore. It’s almost welcoming how it’s guiding him away from the bottom, why is he not scared? Shouldn’t his panic button be hitting right now?

“It figures you’d be a dirty fuck like that,” Michael laughs darkly, rubbing himself so painstakingly slow because they’ve got nothing but time, and he wants to commit this to memory. One of these days, he’s going to make a movie of their lives and damned if he isn’t going to tell it all, even these beautifully dark parts. “C’mon T, it’s not fair that you’ve watched me. Turnabout’s fair play.”

Trevor hisses in frustration but doesn’t refuse and shimmies out of his last remaining article of clothing, and Michael has never even so much as peeked at him when they’ve had to use the john, so he’s actually impressed to see that T is in no way small or even average. He’s built a little thinner than Michael who’s thick, but his whole body is on the long and lanky side so that doesn’t come as a surprise, and he has a nice set of fine dark curls. 

He called Michael gorgeous, but really, Michael thinks there’s nothing on Trevor that isn’t unattractive at all. He should have women and men hanging off him.

 _But he doesn’t act normal_ , something that suspiciously sounds like his stepfather whispers in Michael’s mind. 

Somehow he’s going to help his friend, help fix him, help do something for him, help love him, _something_. 

“C’mon, T,” he encourages silkily. “I wanna see you too. I need to see you.”

Trevor slowly nods, and they begin their dance, eyes locked on each other, watching each other as they stroke themselves into oblivion, and Michael can feel himself slipping further and further underwater in the recesses of his mind as he watches Trevor come undone all over himself, crying Michael’s name one minute and mewling like a newborn the next, and it’s too much.

“God, Trevor,” he hisses as he bucks wildly into his hand, “you look so fucking sexy like that, holy shit! I think I’m gonna--”

And before he can even finish that sentence, Trevor swoops down and engulfs him in his mouth, and it’s warm and wet and heaven all at the same time, and he’s crashing underneath the waves so hard, he’s sure he’s screaming as he’s holding onto Trevor for dear life, and he’s never felt so great while he’s drowning on land. 

Both men busy themselves with catching their breath and looking everywhere but each other. Michael stares at the ceiling of the Chevette as his heart quivers wildly in his chest. Jesus, he feels like he just went four quarters again, but it’s also great. 

A random realization pops in his head. “Did you swallow?”

Trevor looks over at him. “Huh?”

He waves him off, blushing suddenly. “Oh, nothing. I just...none of the girls I ever dated did that. They’d spit. Only the couple of older women I’ve, uh, been with have done that.” Goddammit, he still can’t bring himself to call them whores. It makes him feel bad for both them _and_ him. 

His friend looks at him innocently -- _is_ it innocently; Michael never truly knows -- and drags his fucking cum-covered tongue over his lips, torturing Michael straight to the core. “They don’t know what they’re missing. You taste good like the sea.”

Trevor Philips is going to be the death of him, he knows it. And that’s OK with him.


End file.
